


The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by hideouscyclepath



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Explicit Language, Gen, Lord Farquaad: the pirate, Medical Student Julian, No beta beacause I'm a noob to this fandom, Pirates, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Scary pirates and their drunken shenanigans, Villain with a Napolean complex, alcohol cw, violence cw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24773215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideouscyclepath/pseuds/hideouscyclepath
Summary: Breathing hard and shaking, Julian rifled through his belongings to find something to use as a weapon, only to pick up a sorry piece of driftwood, brittle and worn, from a pile on the one decrepit shelf on his cabin's wall.This can't do,he thought in despair. He threw the driftwood on the floor, panic overtaking him.I have to help somehow! I have to.Only one other option remained: the dagger tucked away in his boot.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been many, many years since I've tried my hand at fiction, but I got inspired by the potential in Julian's backstory and time on a pirate ship (and, predictably, Treasure Island). I'm playing fast and loose with vague pirate and seafaring terminology, so things probably won't be as accurate as they could be. It's been days I've spent agonizing over whether to post this or not and I'm finally, _finally_ doing it. Do all fic writers suffer from perfectionism and impostor syndrome? If not, please tell me your secrets!

Calm waves rolled the _Gravitas_ gently, moonlight bathing her in pearlescent rays. The slight rocking movement of the waves was barely discernible as a faint wind rustled her grand sails. Anatomy books spread out around him like papery sentries, Julian sighed and stared into the low flame on his desk as his eyelids drooped. An unbidden memory of his mentor Nazali's jab ('You can't run a race without pacing yourself! You'll be sure to drop!') snapped his head back to attention as he continued to study. _I have two speeds_ , he thought to himself, wryly, _Sprinting and rest—and nothing in between_.

As he wrote, an unsettling feeling of being watched upset his concentration. Against his better judgment, he looked over at the book to his right. A macabre drawing of a corpse stared blankly up at him from the pages of the anatomy book, sending a shiver down his back. He flipped to the next page, only to see the cross-section of a human head, brain hemispheres in sharp relief. He smirked. _Better_ , _I suppose_.

Time slipped and dragged as he worked, the moonlight growing brighter and more opaque as midnight dawned, and just when Julian was ready to pack it in for the night, a great cataclysm shook the _Gravitas,_ starling him wide awake. He heard shouting above deck, and the cries of the wounded. He smelled smoke and gore and metal. More cannons hit the _Gravitas_ broadside, and as she lurched violently, Julian prayed to gods he wasn't even sure existed that it wasn't pirates.

Clambering footfalls made him snap to attention as the captain, a stocky woman named Adara, burst into his cabin, her face gleaming with sweat. “Gods be damned! It's the _Kinsfolk_ and Barriman himself!”

“ _Barriman_?” Julian jumped to his feet from his desk, hitting his head on a support beam. “Ouch. Something tells me I'll be needed.” He grimaced, gangly hands going up to the bump forming on his head.

“I know what you said before,” Adara said, “but you have to take up a sword, Julian! Lives depend upon every capable woman and man fighting for our ship!”

Julian balked. “I'm a doctor! I took an oath to do no harm and I won't break it.”

“Not a doctor yet,” Adara said, her expression darkening. “I'd better see you above deck soon.” As she stalked out the door, she bellowed, “All you lot had better get your arses above deck, and armed! Barriman and his men are attacking! There's already twenty men aboard and more to follow!”

Breathing hard and shaking, Julian rifled through his belongings to find something to use as a weapon, only to pick up a sorry piece of driftwood, brittle and worn, from a pile on the one decrepit shelf on his cabin's wall. _This can't do_ , he thought in despair. He threw the driftwood on the floor, panic overtaking him. _I have to help somehow! I have to_. Only one other option remained: the dagger tucked away in his boot.

It was curious, how something so small and insignificant, so _simple_ could take a human life. But Julian had no more time to think as the battle raged above deck. Steeling himself, he raced out of his cabin and up the ladder, joining the fray, dagger in hand.

As he fended off attackers, Julian saw the bodies of people he considered friends littering the deck. He fought, trying only to wound, hoping against hope that no one else would lose their life. His mind was full of static.

A wiry man appeared in front of him and in his surprise, Julian stabbed him the gut. The man gurgled, lurching forward, his cutlass and missing by inches before he toppled to a deck soaked with blood and seawater.

Julian gasped, his ears ringing, overtaken by nausea. He was underwater. He could feel his sister's fingers slipping from his as they both sank deeper. He could see his mother's shoe floating above them. He could feel his body moving on its own, fighting off cutlasses, unbidden. Another cannon hit the deck several feet away, knocking him off-balance and he was underwater and drowning, the moon floating dreamily above him, the smell of blood and death and gore overtaking him—

* * *

The sun beat down mercilessly, and with it Julian faintly registered the passage of time. He had no idea where he was or if he was even alive, and in his delirious state, he sat up too quickly. A throbbing ache in his head made him wince, groaning. He tried to inspect the wound, but his hands were bound behind his back.

Footfalls made him jump.

Barriman was just as Adara had described him: a short man, with wolflike blue eyes and a sturdy build. His body was sunburnt down to his fingertips, and he wore tattered leathers that smelled of sweat and the sea.

He crouched down in front of Julian, eyes blazing. “So not only can you fight, you're capable to treating wounds and sickness. We could use you.”

“How do you kn—I mean er, nice to meet you Barriman. I'd shake your hand, but I'm afraid I'm unable to at the moment.” Julian offered a feeble grin.

Sir Barriman barked out a laugh. “A funny bastard, aren't you? You're very fortunate. My men are out for blood right now and that charm of yours may yet save your life.” He sighed, amused. “Your captain told me all about you, _Doctor_ , and that's the only reason your head's not on the tip of a sword right now. Pleaded for your life, she did.”

A sick, cold feeling washed over Julian.

“She could fight well, for a woman. But her heart was weak and she pleaded for your life before her own. Put up a good fight, too, but my crew never takes prisoners.” A pause. “Until now. You'd better have the skills she claims, boy, or you'll be feeding the fish along with her.”

“I'm—I'm the only survivor?” Julian asked, face ashen.

“Aye, the one and only. What a fucking crew of weaklings you were, honestly. If only every merchant ship were this easy to loot.” He prodded his prisoner's ribs with a leather boot. “Now, on your feet. There are many men to treat and we're wasting time.”

Dizzy and with tear-blurred eyes, Julian stumbled to his feet, only to crumple to his knees. Blood sluggishly dripped into his eyes. A sob caught in his chest.

“Oh, I'll be having none of that,” Barriman said. He wrenched Julian to his feet by the elbow and dragged him to the opposite corner of the ship, where the wounded languished side by side.

As Julian worked, the distraction proved beneficial. If he concentrated on the task in front of him, it was almost as if none of this had ever happened—as if he were just doing his job on the _Gravitas_.

Barriman's wolf eyes watched his every move. “I know little of medicine, but if a single one of my men dies under your care, you'll be starved for seven days.”

“Yes, sir,” Julian said, perhaps too bitterly for Barriman's liking, for the pirate grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him down to eye level. The image they made must have been absurd, and Julian found himself fighting a torrent of hysterical laughter, twisting his face grotesquely.

“Know that I make good on my promises,” Barriman hissed. He shoved Julian back and allowed him to keep working.

The sun had begun to set by the time Julian, exhausted and even more pale than usual, had tended to all the wounded men. With nowhere else to go, he sat, legs stretched out, leaning against the side of the _Kinsfolk_ , too tired even to worry about his own safety. It was then that he realized he wasn't alone.

A jeering crowd had formed around him, hemming him in a semi-circle. The group consisted of the most grizzled women and men he'd ever seen in all his seafaring days. Some faces in the crowd were curious, while others were downright murderous. Julian swallowed, his throat suddenly full of sand.

“Can I ah—help you all?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Whether you can help us has yet to be seen,” one pirate said. He recognized her from earlier; he had treated her compound fracture and now she stood awkwardly, tall, proud and sinewy with her arm in a tattered sling that had seen better days. Her short-cropped dark hair ruffled in the breeze.

More jeering and muttering followed, the rest of the crowd looming far, _far_ too close for Julian's liking.

An old man dressed in a colourful patchwork vest and voluminous green pants sat down beside him and the rabble died down a bit.

Julian looked at him quizzically. “Did I miss you earlier? Terribly sorry—let me patch you up—”

“No,” the man smiled. “I'm just the boatswain. I noticed the work you were doing and I have to say: I'm impressed. Never thought a real doctor would set foot on the _Kinsfolk_.”

“I'm not a real doctor,” Julian said. “Just a medical student looking to spend some time on the water—more time, it appears, than I first thought I would.” A few of the pirates barked with laugher, watching the exchange with interest.

The boatswain nodded. “A long time, indeed—if, of course, things go in your favour—which I hope they do.”

“How—” Julian paused, trying again, “How likely is it that things _will_ go in my favour?”

“Depends on whether Barriman likes you,” the boatswain said.

“And is there a way to, er, gauge that?”

“You're still alive after a day with him, so your chances are better than none,” the boatswain said. “And believe you me, I was in your shoes a while ago, back when I had more spring in my step and less grey on my head.” He reached into his pocket, producing a water canteen and a piece of bread. “Here.”

Julian gratefully accepted the canteen and the bread. “Thank you for your kindness. I am in your debt.”

“Oh, I know,” the boatswain chortled, “Soon I'll have you running errands for me when my knee gives out! Now, I must be getting back to my duties, but I'll see you again!” And with that, the eccentric old fellow sauntered off, whistling to himself.

Julian munched on stale bread, drank water, and thought. He knew that he was stuck here for the time being, and that the crew didn't yet trust him enough for him to get through this ordeal with his head attached to his shoulders. So he began to hatch a plan: a plan that was, admittedly, incredibly stupid. He finished his uncomfortable meal, the pirates no longer surrounding him but still watching him in corners of their eyes as they attended to their duties.Then he took a deep breath and began belting out an off-key sea shanty. The pirates paused, watching them, then one whooped and joined in. Soon the deck was in remarkable chaos, with ten pirates singing and more dancing and more still hollering their encouragement.

Barriman emerged from below deck, drunk as any man Julian had ever seen, and guffawed with laughter. “I—I haves ter hand it to yeh,” he slurred, “You know how te liven things up.”

Julian continued to sing, beginning to break a sweat.

“Now—” Barriman continued, “Fer a _real_ shanty t'be sung, there must be wormwood to wet th' palette.” He stood on a nearby upended crate. “A toast! To our new—uhhh—fuzzician! Musician!” He held up a tarnished flask as if it were a holy grail. The _Kinsfolk_ 's crew cheered. “And to our newfound coin!” The deafening roar that followed was enough to make Julian's teeth rattle in his head.

Barriman jumped down from his improvised height enhancer and stumbled over to Julian, sunburn and a drunken flush painting his face. “Now have a sip!” He shoved the flask into Julian's hands, and for the second time in a day, Julian found himself praying to a nebulous god for his life.

One sip and he was already coughing violently, the vile drink leaving a path of fire down his throat. Drinking absinthe on a ship full of pirates that had attacked him not a day ago seemed like a very, _very_ bad idea. Barriman looked at him expectantly, and with a grimace, Julian downed the remainder of what was in the canteen.

Yelling cut the pirates' celebrations short as a tall, large man with a scarred face ran over to Barriman, his face ashen. “Captain! It's Renaud! He's—”

Eyes wild, Barriman ran below deck to where the wounded were resting. Julian watched, heart in his throat, the newfound silence around him heightening his anxiety. Soon Barriman was storming up the ladder and directly towards Julian, face purple and eyes bulging.

 _Shit, oh shit_ , Julian thought. _He may yet kill me after all_.

“He's dead!” Barriman roared. He lashed out violently, kicking, punching and stomping. Julian's knife was long lost, and in his exhaustion all he could do to defend himself was raise his hands and hope to block some of the blows. Barriman's crew yelled, some encouraging him while others tried to make him stop. By the time Barriman had winded himself and his drunkenness had overpowered his rage, Julian was all but incapacitated and coughing up blood.

Barriman's chest heaved as he unsheathed a cutlass, pointing the tip directly under Julian's chin as he coughed and retched. “I should end your sorry life,” he wheezed. “But you're more useful alive than dead.”

He nodded to a two nearby pirates and one grabbed each of Julian's arms. Barriman gestured sloppily,“Take him below. Ruya, watch him.” The wiry woman pirate with the broken arm nodded.

Dragged down each step by painful step, Julian's vision swam, his brain drifting to and fro in his skull. Barely conscious as he was, he didn't notice the grimace on Ruya's face or the tightness in her eyes as she followed him as he was carried below deck. He didn't see the way she winced when he was thrown on the floor. He curled in on himself, shivering, as the two pirates who carted him down left with spiteful looks in his direction.

Firm but gentle hands guided him to an empty bed. He groaned, eyes watering.

“Don't move,” Ruya said. Her soft footfalls retreated, then returned, and she brought a cup of water to Julian's lips, helping him to sit up and drink. “Thankfully, many of those blows didn't hit. You're lucky to be alive. My name is Ruya. I'm the cook. What's your name?”

“Julian,” he croaked.

“Well, Julian, I will see to it that you heal. I am sorry for the actions of my captain. He...He gets like this when he drinks, and more often than not he has a flask or bottle in his hand. Now, rest. You've been through a lot. I'll keep watch.”

 _Something about this woman seems familiar_ , thought Julian as he floated in the murky waters between sleep and waking.

* * *

Adara's waves of grey hair were turning icy as her body froze, suspended in midair. A wave of rubble—broken masts, torn and burnt sails, old cookware—formed a cyclone in a livid red sky and crashed into her, shattering her from head to toe. After her remains fell to the ground, Julian wept and collected the shards of his captain, trying desperately to piece them back together. The more he tried, the more she melted, until he was kneeling in a puddle of bloody water. The man he'd stabbed yesterday—Renaud—appeared in front of him. He reached inside his abdomen, pulling out intestines and letting them slop to the bloodied ground.

Julian jolted awake, shouting in wordless horror. Beside him, Ruya starled, turning to face him in the weak lamplight. After Ruya pacified the concerned mumbles of nearby light sleepers, they both stayed silent for a long while as Julian fought to catch his breath.

“I'm sorry,” he said at length. “That man who died. I fought him, yesterday.”

Ruya sighed. “Renaud. He was my friend, but I understand. You did what you had to do.”

“I took an oath to do no harm,” Julian said. He shifted to get more comfortable and winced.

“An oath doesn't do a dead man much good,” Ruya replied.

True to Barriman's word, Julian was not allowed to surface for days. Throughout his time sequestered below deck, a rotation of guards watched him, some aloof, others openly hostile. Of them, Ruya was the only one to check on his injuries and clean his wounds. On the fourth day, just as his mental clarity was returning and it stopped hurting to breathe, he made a discovery.

Ruya was watching him again that night, as she usually did once the cooking was done and the kitchen was clean. She was discussing tomorrow's meal plan with a sous-chef when the conversation took a different turn.

“Give me three days,” Ruya whispered, almost inaudible. “Three days and I'll be ready. We'll pass by Hundred Palm Island; it will be the perfect place to maroon him.”

Intrigued, Julian feigned sleep and continued to listen.

“What are we using to incapacitate him?” the sous-chef asked.

“Opium. Pour it in that drink he loves so much,” Ruya said. There was fire in her voice.

“Oh, and Julian,” Ruya said drily. Julian held his breath. “I know you're awake and hearing this. You'll have a role, too.”

Julian tried and failed to conceal the smirk in his voice, “You caught me. If you need a distraction, I seem to have a knack for riling him up. If he sees me above deck, it should whip him into a frenzy.”

Ruya drew closer, nodding. “When that happens, Verus here will go into his cabin and put opium in his drink. The coxswain is in on our plan and will steer the ship where it needs to go. Then, we'll deposit him on Hundred Palm and leave. If our plan fails, we have half the crew on our side to fight the half still loyal to him. I only pray it doesn't come to that.”

“If it does, er, come to that, I'll need a new knife,” Julian said.

“It's as good as yours. Though you can't freeze when it comes time to wound, too kill. Are you willing to go against your vows?”

Julian frowned. “That choice has already been made for me, I'm afraid. My oath is already broken.”

“And you'd break it again?” Ruya asked.

“Yes. Unwillingly, but yes,” said Julian.

“Killing in self-defence is not the same as murdering in cold blood,” the sous-chef said.

“Killing is killing,” Julian sighed. “I'm turning out to be a terrible doctor.”

“It wasn't your choice to come aboard,” Ruya said. “But it is your choice whether you do the right thing in this situation. Can I count on you?”

“You can,” Julian said. He sat up for the first time in days, full of newfound nervous energy. “On one condition. Once we pass Vesuvia, you let me go free.”

Ruya nodded. “A fair trade, Julian. Very well.”

And that was that. Conversation over, nerves gripped Julian as he thought about the mutiny three days in the future. Elation at his possible freedom mixing with dread, he barely slept a wink that night. Neither did Ruya, steadfast and keeping watch with a book on her lap.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian was (and had always been) something of an amateur psychologist, hiding a surprisingly keen mind behind foolish dramatics and bravado. He knew that Barriman, despite being intoxicated nearly every waking day of his life, had one fear: the fear of losing face in front of his men. All Julian had to do was make him look as idiotic as possible, disrespect him and call this authority into question. That would provoke him enough to distract him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! I hope you're all ready for more pirate tropes, whimsical characters and goofy dialogue, because I'm here to deliver. I find the more I write, the more I'm getting a feel for the characters (and the more I'm painting myself into a corner with words when it comes to the plot). I want to thank everyone who gives this writing exercise of mine a chance! I really appreciate it that you're taking the time to read, comment, bookmark and leave kudos on this fic.

Three days passed, and the morning of the third day, unknown hands shook Julian awake. “Captain says there are men still in rough shape,” a muscular woman grunted. “Head to sick bay. Second room on the right.”

Yawning and blinking blearily, Julian got to his feet and made his way over. Some of the injured pirates groaned pitifully, still others were sweating with fever. Others lay too still.

Following Nazali's advice, Julian treated the quietest men—the ones who were in life-or-death situations—first. With few medical supplies on hand, all he could do was ease their suffering in their final days and hours.

It was a good few hours before Julian had the opportunity to sneak above deck. As soon as he was up the ladder, the boatswain, Oscar, caught his eye and grinned. Despite the danger he was in, Julian couldn't help but smile back. He wandered fore, towards the prow of the ship as if he were taking a stroll on a pleasant spring day. He sighed contentedly, stretching and popping his joints.

The same muscular woman from earlier was on him in minutes, scowling. “You should be below deck,” she said, arms crossed disapprovingly.

“But why would I want to stay down there on such a marvellous day? There's not a cloud in the sky and the winds are so fair that I found it impossible to stay in such miserable, cramped quarters,” Julian said with a wink.

“One thing you have to know,” she said, taking a step toward Julian, “is that Barriman's word is law. Law that you'd best follow.”

“Where is that temperamental cocker spaniel, anyway?” Julian wondered. “I've neither heard nor seen him in a while. Are you sure he's really your captain?”

The woman's face reddened at the disrespect, fists poised when, as if on cue, Barriman stalked over. He was only slightly less drunk than the last time Julian had seen him and he tottered a little with each step.

“What'd I tell you?” Barriman growled. In no time at all, he was face-to-face with Julian. What Barriman lacked in height, he more than made up for in the potential for violence, and Julian had to fight not to take several steps back. Barriman's voice rose with every word, climbing in volume and pitch. “What'd I tell you? Get-get the fuck below before I break every bone in your body! Get below! Go!”

Julian was (and had always been) something of an amateur psychologist, hiding a surprisingly keen mind behind foolish dramatics and bravado. He knew that Barriman, despite being intoxicated nearly every waking day of his life, had one fear: the fear of losing face in front of his men. All Julian had to do was make him look as idiotic as possible, disrespect him and call this authority into question. That would provoke him enough to distract him.

“I'm not the one who's drunk,” Julian said, matching Barriman's volume, “despite you being the captain! Maybe _you_ should stay below deck for a change!”

Barriman was on him immediately, but this time Julian was in better shape to dodge a punch to the nose. He continued to dodge the furious captain's blows as if they were dancing a vigorous waltz. As Barriman aimed a vicious jab at Julian's stomach, the enraged pirate tripped on a length of rope and fell on his ass. Barriman tried to get back on his feet but continued to lose his balance as his crew watched silently. The muscular woman pirate tried to help Barriman to his feet, but the pirate captain's wounded pride wouldn't allow it.

“Fuck off, Deirdre!” Barriman hissed at her. He looked up at Julian, hatred in his bright blue eyes. “I'll soon be mashing your face into pulp!”

“It seems you'll, er, be mashing your _own_ face first, Barriman,” Julian said. “Or rather, your own ass, at this rate.”

Barriman's face purpled with rage and mortification as some of his crew began to snicker. He finally got to his feet again and stayed there. A few seconds went by and then Barriman lunged forward, this time pulling a knife. He slashed with little power and less accuracy, and it didn't take much effort for Julian to disarm him.

“I've been needing a new knife,” Julian said appreciatively. “Thank you kindly, sir!” He made a show of twirling the knife in his fingers, grinning.

Barriman was silent, nostrils flaring, and then he charged, knocking them both off their feet. Julian rolled out from under Barriman, sighing. “Bad choice. Remember, I'm the one with the knife.”

Barriman was beside himself—sweating, face red with humiliation, and on the verge of tears. So he reached for the one comfort he had—his flask. Only, it wasn't in his pocket where it usually was. He must have gotten distracted and put it in his cabin. Barriman turned tail and retreated, ready to drink away his sorrows.

As soon as the Barriman was gone, the boatswain with the green pants, Oscar, clapped him on the back. “Well done,” he said. “The fight's over, no one's dead and everyone's been entertained. That's a win in my book!” He turned to Deirdre, who was sulking nearby. “Captain Barriman should have taken your help, but I'm glad he didn't. Otherwise, our good doctor here might not be alive right now.”

Oscar stretched theatrically. “Well, I'd better check on our captain and make sure he doesn't drink himself to death!” And with that, he disappeared into the captain's cabin nearby.

Julian was amazed by this turn of events, so different from his initial time on the _Kinsfolk_.

_Maybe my luck is taking a turn for the better_ , Julian thought. _Perhaps the rest of this will be just as easy_.

* * *

Hundred Palm Island was a small mass of trees, dense jungle and squat hills. The landing party left the wounded and the ill below deck, dropped anchor and set out onto the island's shores. Wrestling Barriman into a landing boat proved to be a challenge, but with enough coaxing, the unusually docile man made it to shore.

Oscar guided a bleary Barriman across a beach with white sand. It turned out that the pirate captain's drunkenness was the perfect cover for the opium Verus had slipped into his flask, which served as a small but subtle layer of additional intoxication. To everyone but those in on the mutiny, he appeared no different from usual—maybe a touch more euphoric, and maybe a bit more relaxed—but then, drink had a similar effect.

They dropped anchor on the concave side of the moon-shaped island, piled into shore boats and began their supposed supply run. Barriman was soon lounging in the shade of a palm tree on the beach, clutching his flask in a loose grip.

Julian found it strange, walking on land for the first time in months. Every step he took was slightly off-balance, as if he were still on a ship rocked by waves. He began to look around, observing the lay of the land. Palm Island was shaped like the crescent pastries Mazelinka made for him and his sister when he was a child.

Distracted as they were by the supply run, no one focused on Barriman, not even those suspicious that they'd suddenly dropped anchor. Julian soon found Ruya, Oscar, Verus and some twelve other crew members huddling by a small cave near the beach. He cautiously picked his way over, aware that he was being watched by some of the other pirates milling about.

Ruya was speaking softly, and she nodded as Julian approached.

“Everything is going as planned,” Ruya said. “So far no one is the wiser, though Deirdre is as shrewd as she is suspicious and might pose problems. We'd best keep an eye on her.”

“Why in the world would Barriman ever be chosen to be captain?” Julian asked. “All I've ever seen him do is drink, stumble, threaten and pummel me with his fists. I may be missing something, but surely another person would be better suited.”

“A valid question,” Ruya said. “Barriman was a good man. Once. Five years ago, he wasn't the same person he is now. He commanded respect and lead with skill. But I've observed a change—a decline—in him over the years. Life on the sea has not been kind to him.”

Oscar, the boatswain who'd given him water and bread the first night, spoke up. “He lost his right-hand man.” The old man was leaning against the side of the squat cave, fidgeting with a dark rock between his fingers. He tucked the rock into the pocket of his signature green pants. “A storm washed the poor bastard out to sea. That's the reason why Barriman turned out how he is.” Oscar scratched his bald head with an olive-brown hand.

“And it's the reason why he's so angry,” said Ruya. “No one can ever replace Simon. No one can ever come close. And so he escapes into drink and anger and violence.”

Ruya straightened her posture, her bronze eyes regarding them all seriously. “Now for the next phase of the plan. Julian, I need you again—this time, to distract the fifteen women and men still loyal to Barriman. You're to stay with me and make it look as if you're helping with the supply run, and when my back is turned, you must run for the northernmost part of the island, to the caves.”

Julian listened intently, his face betraying his growing unease.

“Ruya continued, ”Once you begin to run, I will shout for the other men to chase you and bring you back to the south of the island.”

“And where will we be, in all of this?” Verus asked dubiously. “Won't it be obvious we're working together?”

“This is why we all have to split up. We must appear to be making a legitimate supply run,” Ruya answered. ”We will meet where the ship is moored and slip away at midday, leaving Barriman and his men behind.”

“That is all well and good,” Julian said, “But odds are we will be found out and have to fight. And there's also the problem of the injured men on the _Kinsfolk._ Surely some of them will still be loyal to Barriman.”

“We should outnumber them,” Ruya said. “And when we're back on the _Kinsfolk_ , we will appoint a new captain.”

“I nominate myself,” a humorous voice in the group said. They wore their long, lavender hair in a coily topknot, and they were dressed in a baggy jumpsuit that looked like it was made out of old sails.

“Ingrid,” Ruya smiled, “I would go to the ends of the earth with you as my captain. But aren't you already the coxswain?”

“I can wear many hats,” Ingrid giggled.

“This exchange is becoming stupid,” Verus grumbled. “We're wasting time pissing about here.”

“You heard Verus,” Ruya whispered, “Let's go.”

* * *

Julian walked with Ruya, taking care to look around himself as if searching for supplies. Something caught his eye and he stopped.

“I know these plants,” Julian said, grinning in recognition. “Fiddlehearts. Very nutritious—ward off scurvy.”

Ruya sent him an grateful look. “That they are. Well spotted.” She moved to put the curled ferns in her pack, and at that second Julian broke into a sprint.

A few seconds went by. Then, in a show of ostentatious (and entirely unnecessary) play-acting, Ruya dropped her bag and cried, “The doctor's escaping!”

Soon, a handful of pirates were hot on Julian's trail—and more were in the background, following.

_Gods above, I hope my legs don't give out_ , Julian thought. He ran like the devil was on his heels, and in his mind he may as well have been.

Soon, Julian was deep in the tangled vines and thick brush of the jungle. Grateful to have his stolen knife, he cut through the vegetation, moving swiftly and silently. Behind him, he could still hear the voices and footsteps of the pirates pursuing him.

A sweaty, humid hour passed as Julian, determined to be just out of reach, paced himself to outrun his pursuers. Dying of thirst and a complete nervous wreck, he finally emerged from the jungle and reached the northernmost tip of the island. He ran to the low caves and rolling hills, fighting the urge to climb into a cool grotto and drink the fresh water doubtlessly found inside.

He racked his memories for something useful to keep himself running free.

_Think, Ilya_! All that came to mind were Mazelinka's exasperated words, “I'm going to wring your neck, idiot boy!” He could almost feel her thrown slipper connecting with his back. _No, no—not helpful_.

Suddenly, he remembered playing hide-and-seek with Portia when they were small and he shook his head with a rueful laugh. He was essentially playing hide-and-seek, only he might never have freedom again if he got found. What trick did he use on Portia? He hid in plain sight, somewhere obvious and so brazen she would run by him as he barely contained his chortles. Mazelinka had laughed at his stories, saying he had hidden a silver piece in a bag of gold. _That's what I have to do_ , Julian thought. _Be a silver piece in a bag of gold_.

He knew he was taking a chance, but if he hid atop one of the caves, rather than beside or in one, he might be overlooked. Thrumming with adrenaline, Julian found one of the taller caves and scaled it with some difficulty. There was a crevasse where two large masses of rock met, and he slipped between them, tucking in his legs.

He held his breath and waited as the pirates' footfalls drew nearer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deirdre appeared around the edge of the cave, snorting with anger like a bull. Up close, she looked even stronger than Julian had remembered, her body thick with hard-earned muscle, and as his frantic grey eyes met her hazel ones, he know that he was well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter was difficult to write. Dialogue is not my forte, but I try!

The roof of the cave where Julian huddled was cast in shadow by nearby trees and blessedly cool, despite the oppressive humidity. There was also a small hole in its rocky surface, just barely big enough to see the inside of the cave. _Now that_ , he thought, _could come in handy_.

He heard the footsteps of the searching pirates as they moved through the brush and ferns surrounding the caves, though few voices filled the air. He knew what game they were playing: they were using gestures, eye contact and the telepathy they had developed over the years, to communicate.

“Find out where that bastard is hiding,” hissed a woman.

 _Deirdre_ , Julian guessed. _Right. Watch out for her; that's what Ruya said_.

If Julian wasn't beside himself with nerves, he would have laughed heartily at the pirates' fruitless search for him. They scoured the caves nearby, never once thinking to look up rather rather around—and inside—the caves. Nevertheless, Julian was in a cold sweat, waiting in trepidation as the search party got closer and closer to where he was hidden.

And closer still.

As the search party filed into the cave directly below his hiding spot, Julian felt as if he were ten years old again and Portia were running by him as he hid, and the thrill was so great that it was almost worth the unpleasant run it took to get there. Through the hole in the roof of his cave, he watched them search and tried to contain an amused and nervous giggle. He failed.

The sound of his laugh went through the hole in the rock and directly into the cave beneath him, which acted as an amplifier.

“He's in here!” someone shouted.

“And now he knows _we're_ in here, _too_ , you damned buffoon!” Deirdre said. “We were going to catch him by surprise, Phyllis!”

“There's ten of us and one of him,” Phyllis countered. “It shouldn't be a problem to catch him whether he knows we're here or not, right?”

“And now he knows how many of us there are! _Think_ , Phyllis! Use that bloody lump in your skull for once!”

 _Isn't ten people a little excessive to find one escaped prisoner_? Julian thought. He was vastly outnumbered, but there was an upside to that: fewer pirates would be near the _Kinsfolk_ when he and the mutineers made their escape.

It was only a matter of time before the pirates realized that his laugh has echoed and disguised his position on top of the cave. Julian shifted his weight, preparing to scramble down and run southwest, towards where the _Kinsfolk_ was anchored. It was at that moment that a creeping sensation made him startle. The tickling, itching feeling went down his grimy neck to his sweaty arms, and when he looked, Julian saw the source: at least twelve enormous tarantulas were on him. Although held in his high-pitched scream, he could not stop himself from frantically flailing his limbs.

In a moment where time seemed to stop, Julian realized too late that he was at the very edge of the cave's roof. And, within seconds, he was hitting the sandy ground with a hearty thump. Groaning at the impact on still-healing bruises but otherwise unhurt, Julian's shock kept him on the ground a few moments too long. Soon, the footsteps he heard echoing in the cave were headed in his direction.

Deirdre appeared around the edge of the cave, snorting with anger like a bull. Up close, she looked even stronger than Julian had remembered, her body thick with hard-earned muscle, and as his frantic grey eyes met her hazel ones, he know that he was well and truly fucked.

Julian sat up and inched backwards with a nervous smile. “If I told you that this was all just a misunderstanding,” he said hopefully, “is there a chance you'd, ah, let me go free?” He fumbled around his arms and torso, checking for spiders. They were gone; that was a plus. Deirdre—and her companions gathering behind her—was a definite minus.

Deirdre unsheathed her cutlass and inched forward, glowering.

With shaking hands, Julian grabbed his stolen knife out of his belt loop, staggering to his feet and backing away.

In the time it took Julian to blink, Deirdre was surging forward, her expression steely. The fight that ensued was a short as it was ridiculous: a knife against a sword. Julian wished in vain that he had chosen to learn the art of swordsmanship as he ducked and parried for his life. He was beginning to regret his reluctance to learn sword fighting for the sake of his dearly-held morals.

A particularly fierce strike had his knife flying out of his hand, and, shocked but not disbelieving, Julian found Deirdre's sword pointing under his chin. There was no triumph in her eyes—only weary resignation.

“Phyllis!” A fair-skinned man with long, cow-licked blond hair ran out of the spectating crowd with a length of sea-rope in his hands. He fumbled in his attempt to bind Julian's hands behind his back.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Deirdre exclaimed. “Can someone else tie a bloody knot today?”

Another pirate replaced Phyllis and secured Julian's wrists together tightly. Phyllis slunk away sheepishly.

As he was marched southwest to where the _Kinsfolk_ waited, the point of Deirdre's sword resting on his back, guilt gnawed on Julian's insides. So far, his part in the mutiny had turned out to be a colossal failure.

* * *

It was nearly midday, yet Ruya had seen neither hide nor hair of Julian. And he wasn't the only one missing. Since she and her fellow mutineers had reconvened after their supply run, Barriman had disappeared, the pirate captain absent from his lounged position under a palm tree. Ruya didn't care where Barriman went, as long as she and her companions left while he was still inebriated. But she had made a pact with Julian and didn't intend to leave him behind, even if their plans went south.

The sound of increasing waves lapping against the shore did little to settle her unease as Ruya stared into the jungle, waiting for Julian to emerge as their cue to leave.

The remainder of pirates loyal to Barriman were absent—likely searching for him—and the ten who she had seen pursue Julian were still gone. She hoped that Julian had managed to outrun and outsmart them with the rest of the mutineers' plans hanging in the balance. She was also thankful that those ten women and men felt the need to follow Deirdre like little, lost ducklings. The fact that Deirdre rarely went anywhere without a group made things easier.

A rustle in the ferns and vines in the nearby jungle made Ruya's head snap to attention. She hoped that it was Julian—and that he was alone. But instead, she saw that it was Barriman, aimlessly stumbling over his own feet.

“Deirdre!” Barriman called, “Where are you?”

Now, Ruya and the captain were not exactly close. But since she was trusted with food preparation, there was a level of positive association that she planned to use to her advantage.

“Captain Barriman,” she called back. “Are you all right?”

It took several minutes, but Barriman bumbled his way over to her, reeking of sweat, absinthe and rum.

“She's gone,” he mumbled. And with that, Barriman wept, great sobs shaking him as he hunched over in defeat.

A crueller woman might have kicked the usually violent man while he was down, but not Ruya, who had witnessed his decline over the past five years. She put her good hand, in lieu of her broken arm, on Barriman's back, patting softly.

“I'm sure she's on her way back,” Ruya said. “Maybe she's still gathering timber.”

But Barriman continued to cry and wail, ignoring Ruya's words and pulling her into an awkward hug. Ruya wrinkled her nose. He really did smell like death.

From her position facing the jungle, more movement caught Ruya's eye. She squinted into the distance, making out a flash of white. That flash became more defined as the vines, ferns and trees thinned, until Julian's lanky form emerged. At first, Ruya was elated, but that elation didn't last long as she saw Deirdre follow Julian, along with the nine other pirates who had pursued him.

Julian met Ruya's eyes, shaking his head, expression crestfallen.

Deirdre, in a move that surprised no one but Julian, put a hand to her lips and whistled loudly as soon as she saw Barriman, who still clung to Ruya like a sloth to a tree.

“It's great—wonderful really—that Barriman is still here,” Julian said. “The-uh-the only thing is that we were out for a supply run, were we not? I'm not seeing any supplies gathered, save for what Ruya has in her pack. Perhaps we'd better keep loo—” the point of Deirdre's cutlass dug into his back.

“Don't think you're in charge, here, doctor,” Deirdre said, her voice steely. “And don't think our supply run went to shit all on its own. You are becoming far more trouble than you're worth.” She drove the point of her cutlass further forward until a thin ribbon of blood dripped down Julian's back.

“I don't think I-I'm not _that_ much trouble, am I?” Jullian said with an edge of panic in his voice. “Who else will, ah, patch you all up after your shooting and looting, right?” He loosed a small, hysterical chuckle. “I'm especially good at stitching, amputations, and mending broken bones. My mentor says I have a delightful bedside manner, to which I can't help but agree, and despite only being a student of this noble profession I have a lot of potential—”

“Gods above and below!” Deirdre said irately. “Shut your fucking gob for once.”

Julian bit his lip, as if trying to keep his torrent of jittery words from escaping.

Deirdre marched Julian toward where Barriman still clung to Ruya scarcely one hundred metres away. As soon as Deirdre, her prisoner, and her search party were up close, Ruya stepped off to the side to let Deirdre and Barriman speak. The other woman's mistrustful eyes followed her every step, then moved back to Barriman.

“Captain Barriman,” she said, “This bastard ran off! We chased him for hours, and spent more time still walking him back to your ship! What should we do with him?”

Barriman's glazed eyes looked up at Deirdre as if she were the creator of the universe themselves. Then, he surged up and pulled her into a fierce hug. “I thought you were gone!” he wept into her shoulder.

Deirdre dropped her cutlass in surprise and shifted awkwardly. “I'm here.”

“You're here,” Barriman rocked his head and mumbled into her tanned, muscled arm.

Ruya watched this display with concern. Deirdre was hoping that Barriman would let her kill Julian. The best they could hope for would be for Julian to be dragged back onto the ship and guarded for the remainder of the supply run. The mutiny would happen either way, but Ruya couldn't help but feel responsible for Julian's fate as the leader of the plan.

Deirdre gently disentangled herself from Barriman's arms. The intoxicated pirate captain's eyes were glazed over, but Deirdre tried asking her question again: “What should we do with this bastard?”

Barriman just stared, looking not at Deirdre, but through her.

Deirdre sighed deeply. “Alonso. Take this fuckwit back to the _Kinsfolk_ and watch him like a hawk. I'll find out what Barriman wants to do once he's sobered up.”

“Aye aye,” a broad, copper-skinned man said. Soon, Julian was being led to where the shore boats were anchored, Alonso's cutlass steering him.

Julian looked back over his shoulder to see Ruya watching him sadly. Soon, he was in a shore boat with his new guard and on his way back to the very ship where he had first become a prisoner.


End file.
